


ruled by secrecy

by kimoi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimoi/pseuds/kimoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and you don’t know if you can let this ugly charade go on any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ruled by secrecy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [armageddon2](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=armageddon2).



> i might make this a real thing eventually. happy birthday caitlin ♥

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and you don’t know if you can let this ugly charade go on any longer.

You know he’s just helping you out, but your best friend Sollux Captor has been putting up with this for longer than you feel is absolutely fair.

But maybe you need to back up a bit. Not all of this makes sense for involved parties.

It’s been almost a sweep, and since the end of the game and everything going back to normal, you had resumed your daily routine of being utterly terrified of being dragged out of your hive for not having your quadrants (or pails) filled. That’s when he made the suggestion.

Sollux had approached you probably a day later, finding you in your run-down hive quietly grieving over pictures of Crabdad and kicking debris into the giant hole in the middle of your floor. You’d told him to go away. He hadn’t listened. He asked how your blood was. You’d told him red as ever, asshole, now what do you *want*. He laughed one of his stupid laughs and sat down next to you, pushing his glasses up on his almost upturned nose. Crap. In the midst of your battles you’d forgotten how stupid (read: unfairly attractive) he was. 

Without looking at you, he’d made some assumptions about your fears and concerns about going back to daily life on Alternia. You’d punched him in the arm and he’d told you that you weren’t telling him he was wrong. There was a sigh and a pause and a silence between you before you actually admitted what you were feeling.

He said he knew it. You punched him again.

After a wince and a comment about how you were ‘tho thtrong, kk, you mutht have worked out on that meteor ehe’ he quieted, staring into the hole on the floor. Then he said something you’d never expected him to.

That is to say, you’d never expected him to offer a genetic contribution for pail collection to keep you from being exterminated.

You were stunned but the lack of laughter or snide after-remarks or even a smirk was proof enough he was being honest. You asked him why. He asked what were best friends for. Your chest hurt a little but you didn’t argue.

It started off a little awkward at first, the whole... process. There were some trust issues from both sides, and when it came time for the pails one of you usually just went after the other behind a closed door. But the result was the same as if you were actually in a quadrant, so it didn’t matter much. But it built from that, and before you knew it you were helping each other fill the pails. It was never beyond hand or horn jobs, there was no penetration involved and neither of you spoke about it afterwards. Filled pail. Handed pail to drone. Sollux went back to his hive and you sat around thinking about your life and your pretend matesprit. You wondered if he did, too.

Today you decided to go over to his hive and tell him that it was over. Not because you didn’t appreciate the sacrifice he made for you, and not because you were particularly ecstatic about fending for yourself once again. But because it wasn’t fair to him, and anyone he had an interest in seeing in a red quadrant probably wouldn’t want him moonlighting as a magical bucket-filling fairy. The mental image made you smile a little, at least, as you knocked on his door.

He wasn’t expecting you, but his quirked eyebrow told volumes of what was going through his pan. He’d greeted you coolly and let you in, and asked if there were any surprise drone visits scheduled. You said you had something you wanted to tell him. He said the same thing. Your brows knit in confusion and out of morbid curiosity you decided to let him go first.

He made a big deal out of it like he did everything, but you eventually got it out of him that he was interested in actually pailing with you. Actual for real pailing, not just half-satisfying hornjobs and creative work-arounds so no one really had to get any attachment to anything. You don’t know what to say. He gives you a look and asks ‘well’. You’re hard pressed to say no.

He pulls you further into his hive and you let him, still a little incredulous as to what’s happening. Or going to happen. Or if it will happen because Sollux is a bulgemunch and likes to pull your leg sometimes. What a fucker. But he lets your wrist go and gives you a look, and for all he’s ever done it’s entirely honest, and you give an ever-so-slight nod of whatever he’s looking for. Evidently it was correct, because he sweeps in like troll Casanova, and even his peck of a first kiss leaves your knees weak. His hands were on your cheeks and sweeping back into your hair, and before you knew it his mouth was on yours again and he tasted bittersweet; not like honey as you’d imagined but fatigue and stale energy drinks, and you remembered how hard it was for him to ever get a good night’s sleep. You sympathized, and held his biceps tightly, pushing belated, useless apologies into his mouth without words. 

It didn’t take long for either of you to be on his couch with the yellowblood looming over you, running hands under your shirt and kissing your neck. You think he’s putting on a bit of a show just for filling a pail but you don’t argue, instead hissing into the air and littering broken curse words and jagged demands for him to _fucking touch you already_ over his hair. He snickers into your skin and it tickles as much as it feels oddly wonderful, and he’s palming you through your pants. Not good enough, you tell him. Deal with it, he retorts. You deal with it but not well, hand gripping both the couch and the back of his shirt. You stamp a foot and he laughs at you, calling you a wiggler before time slows down and you hear the domestic sound of your zipper being pulled. His long fingers don’t even bother, diving right into your underwear and sliding along the slick surface of your bulge. Following the curvature of it downward you tense and maybe make an awkward squeaking noise that tapers into something much less dignified as he teases the entrance of your nook. His pants aren’t even open yet and you’re already a hot, gasping mess, and you curse the day a nerd like Sollux got better at this whole wooing thing than _you_ did. Neither of you were ever very good, but that was beside the point.

He continues fingering you and kissing your neck, and you’re helpless beneath him. Your favoured course of action is to rock your hips to the best of your abilities, inviting him to do more. He obliges by biting you. That’s not what you were talking about. You cry out a little breathlessly, the eroticism of it all dulling the pain. He licks your wound and you swallow his name, imploring him with your body language to _actually_ do more. You find your hands and move one, running it over the front of his own jeans. He hisses into your skin and you smirk around your panted breaths, delivering another fatal blow.

His knees weaken and he stops with his fingers (which is the opposite of what you wanted to happen), so you find his mouth with yours and kiss him again, sticking your hand into his pants and returning the favour to encourage him into continuing. He’s slick and warm and you realize for all your escapades you’ve never touched him like that before. It was always exclusively horns or bulge and that was it. You decide you like it. It makes him make noises you enjoy hearing and when you stop he whines. You like that feeling. You feel wanted. Almost needed. Sollux responds in kind, fingers back in you and you can’t tell if you like this or would like his bulge more, but you want to find out.

You struggle his pants down enough to let him out, rubbing your palm over the underside of his bulge. He makes a stupid noise and you will have to remember to make fun of him for it later. But you hope he doesn’t remember the dumb noises _you’re_ making and use them as retaliation. Because you’re definitely making some stupid noises (but only because he’s using two fingers now) and all you want is for him to just _fuck you_ already. 

He takes your next rather desperate sound as a good indication that you’ve had enough and he pulls his fingers out of your pants. You’re sofuckingready to be pailed but the fingers will be missed; even as he’s tugging your pants down to mid-thigh you wish they were back inside of you. He adjusts himself and is directly in front of you, distracting you with loud kisses and a hand that he rakes through your hair before you feel his bulge nosing into you. It’s nothing like his fingers and at first it’s toomuchtoomuchtoomuch and your breath catches in your throat, accidentally biting his tongue as the tops of your thighs nearly press to your chest and your toes curl and you whimper against him. You hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ but you don’t know which one of you they came from even though it doesn’t matter.

You don’t adjust well but you give him the go-ahead anyway, breaking the mouth contact to press your head into the couch. He takes advantage of this and kisses your throat while he thrusts into you, deeper and deeper every time. You feel him hum a chuckle against your skin and the sick fuck is _enjoying_ discomfort. But it’s half-hearted anger because the feeling of him filling your nook with himself is way too distracting to worry about petty things like your self-image. 

He doesn’t relent and it’s amazing, and before you’re able to tell anything else you feel him shudder and suddenly he’s released inside of you. Which surprises you for a fleeting instant. You and him both knew there was no collection today, but somehow you thought he’d bring a pail anyway just... because. But you feel his genetic fluid in you and as he pulls out it doesn’t stay in and you shiver. His hands are on you again, one on your own bulge and the other is pulling your hair (your head) to the side so he can bite just under your ear and the combination sends you teetering over your own edge, translucent red joining honey yellow with a piteous cry.

You collect yourselves and after a few minutes he helps you sit, patiently cleaning the both of you off before dressing you and himself again. He’s still panting and you can see beads of honey-sweat clinging to his forehead just under his bangs and it takes a lot of self control not to lean over and kiss him again.

He catches his breath and looks at you. You say ‘what’. He reminds you you had something to say. You feel the tremendous amount of colour drain from your face. Oh. You did have something to say. This is problematic. Instead of going with what you were originally going to say you press your luck.

He doesn’t laugh when you ask him to be matesprits. He doesn’t make a joke at your expense. He seems to think it over and eventually nods. That’s a good idea, he says. Now he cracks a smile. He was wondering when you’d ask.

You don’t go back to your hive. You don’t worry about drones.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and your life will be different now.


End file.
